I acknowledge that I obsess on the death of my n-father. Today is no different. It's made worse by the expected news that our beloved elderly cat will not live much longer.

I can't shake the thought that when she dies, I will be profoundly effected. She's been my dear friend for many years. She's given me immeasurable joy, happiness and unconditional love. Having her in my life has made my life so much better. I'm brought to tears just thinking of her dying. Yet, I have absolutely no problems with my feelings toward my feline friend dying.

Where I run into trouble, of course, is the feelings toward my dead n-father and the knowledge that some day my mother will die. I've never experienced sadness over my n-father's death. I'm not numb or in denial. My life is better without having to deal with him. At best, I feel ambivalent. Regarding my mother, I am not currently in contact with her. I have no plans to change that. I may never know when she dies and I'm OK with that. In a way I'd prefer not to know so I don't have to deal with the same feelings of ambivalence that I have with my n-father's death. Yet, I would be able to breathe more freely knowing that there would be no surprise telephone call or ring at the doorbell.

Simply put, I'm bothered that I grieve the death of a cat more than the death of my parents. There, I've said it. Yet, I can name the logical reasons: she's been my friend; her presence has made my life better; I will miss her; to my parents, at best, I was an appendage, and not always a convenient one. This "knowledge" doesn't help, though.

I don't know how to reconcile this. "Shoulds" don't help me any more than logic. I'm missing a piece to this puzzle. I think I'll go look under the pile of laundry on the laundry room floor. Maybe it's hiding under there.

What's the Difference?

Now that our family gathering is over, I've been reflecting on the differences between a week with in-laws and a week with my parent(s). I'm having trouble putting my finger on it, but there *is* something there.

Maybe it's the lack of corporate anxiety and the notion that at any moment something may be said or done to cause spontaneous combustion. That would certainly be the case with get-togethers with my mother. If my father were there, the whole thing, of course, would be about him.

That brings me to an entirely different topic that I started with, but I feel like going with the flow, so whatever.

My final year at university I lived alone in a small house within walking distance of the campus. One night, I woke-up to what sounded like a mouse scratching or gnawing. I lifted my head in an attempt to get a fix on it, but it had stopped. It was a hot July night and I was buck naked, lying on top of all the covers. I had fallen asleep reading and all the lights were still on. I laid my head back down and started to fall back asleep, when I heard the noise again, only this time I could hear it wasn't a mouse, it was a human voice whispering just on the other side of the window over my bed. It said, "She's lying right in there." Enter Fear.

To make a long story short, I called the police who confirmed that there were men's footprints at and leading up to my bedroom window. I didn't sleep much that night. The next morning, I called my boyfriend, how husband, who came to stay with me.

I never considered calling my parents. It wasn't until recently that I had any idea why and that bothered me. You see, I believe it was wrong to have my boyfriend come and live with me; yet, I couldn't imagine doing anything differently. It seemed like my only possibility. I think I've finally figured out the reason I didn't call my parents. Had I done so, my father would have sprang into action, taking charge and running the show. While that's not necessarily bad by itself, I would have become a minor player without any say in the matter. My needs and feelings would be immaterial. It would be all about Him and all the wonderful things He did to help His daughter. Whether I felt safe(r) after it was all over wouldn't even enter the equation.

So, what does this have to do with my in-laws visit?

I have a medical problem right now, and many days I need to nap. One day during the visit, while my spouse was at work, I needed a nap. One of my sisters-in-law volunteered to watch my kids so I could rest. She cared for them, fed them, but didn't make A Big Deal about it. She didn't draw everyone's attention to it or bring it up in conversation multiple times afterwards. She didn't announce all the troubles she'd had with them, or how she'd had to sacrifice to look after them. In fact, I don't remember her mentioning it at all except to tell me that she'd fed them pizza. It was all so......low key. It was all so foreign.

I'm not sure how to put it into words, but that's the difference.

Saying Goodbye

It was odd when I learned that my father would soon die. I felt no emotion, no grief or sadness. It was a very matter of fact thing. In the more than five years since he died, it hasn't changed. I don't miss him. I had a chance to try to talk to him about things that are important to me before he died, but he preferred to lecture me. I tried; I have peace.

Having heard all those heart-warming stories of parents reconciling with their adult children when told they would die soon, I quietly hoped. I was naive enough to hope that his impending death would cause him to look at his life and perhaps try to mend fences, get closer to family, take advantage to enjoy the life he had left. Nope. He became even more bitter and angry. If my mother didn't get him his medication as fast as he wanted it, he'd grit his teeth and curse her slowness. He continuously lectured me about what I should stand for in my life and what I should find important. On Father's Day, he railed that his civil rights had been violated since the city government had outlawed the serving of beer on Sunday.

I suppose that's probably a common marker of narcissists: even pending death doesn't effect them in the same way it does other people. My father took a look at life and he was disappointed, not because of the choices he made, but because of what life didn't give him.